Father, I Have Sinned
by LadyIngenue
Summary: Esmeralda confesses her sins to Archdeacon Claude Frollo unaware of the depraved thoughts he has for her, and ignites a dark passion between them. Inspired by Disney and the book. M for sex and kink.
1. Chapter 1

**This story has been inspired by the Disney movie and the book, but is slightly AU for both. Frollo has seen Esmeralda from afar but hasn't spoken to her or tried to capture her. She has met and fallen in love with Phoebus. As in the book, Frollo is a priest and Phoebus is a womaniser.**

 **The image for this story is the heavenly Daniel Lavoie as Frollo in _Notre Dame de Paris._**

...

Archdeacon Claude Frollo heard the sound of the confessional box sliding open and a light step on the wood panels. The air was heavy with incense and the steep, hallowed walls of the cathedral of Notre Dame echoed with the soft voices of the choir.

He waited in the gloom for the penitent on the other side of the grille to speak, but there came only the sound of soft breathing.

'I … hello?' said a timid voice.

Frollo raised his head from his steepled fingers in surprise, but force of habit kept his eyes averted. He often recognised his flock from their voices when they came to confess, but for their sake he did not turn his eyes toward them. The grille was meant to disguise their features but it was more decorative than functional.

He cleared his throat. 'What is your confession?' Still silence. He looked up and saw a shaft of light on the other side of the partition. 'My child, you have not closed the door. And why are you not kneeling?'

The figure rushed to slide the panel closed and then fell to her knees. Her hands pressed against the grille, just inches from Frollo's face. What passion there was in those rigid hands. How they clawed at the metal.

'Monseigneur,' said a voice tight with tears. 'I don't know what to do. I feel so ashamed.'

Frollo's lips pressed together. Who was this in his confessional? The correct words were, _Bless me Father, for I have sinned_.

'My child, is this your first confession?'

There was a sniffle. 'Yes.'

Gentler now, 'Are you Catholic?'

A short silence, and then, 'I'm – no. I don't think so. But please help me.' The voice cracked, and the girl began to cry.

Frollo turned his head and peered though the grille. He saw long, dark curls and a cloak thrown hastily about slim shoulders. A wide, red mouth. The soft curve of a pretty cheek. He breathed in sharply through his nostrils. The gypsy! He'd watched her from afar, never daring to draw close, but there was no mistaking her. He'd fought so hard to banish her from both his thoughts and the steps of Notre Dame.

'I cannot take your confession if you have not been baptised,' he snapped.

Tearful green eyes peered at him through the grille. 'Please, Archdeacon. It is the archdeacon, isn't it? I am the gypsy who dances with the little goat just outside the cathedral and –'

He interrupted her with a strangled sound. 'My child, we do not identify ourselves in the confessional. It matters not who I am and who you are. In here it is our souls we are concerned with.'

In his secret heart he was rejoicing. She knew him? Recognised him?

'Yes,' she said, eagerness lighting up her face. 'Teach me. What do I say? Do I put my hands together in prayer?'

'My child, you have not been baptised,' he repeated, desperate now.

'But I fear for my immortal soul,' she cried.

Frollo took deep breaths. How to explain to her that she was damned already? If she was not baptised then the original sin was still upon her.

'Where are your parents?' he asked quickly.

'I have none.'

'Your friends? You must have a friend, a confidante?'

'None that can advise me. Please, Father. I address you as Father, don't I? Yes, I have heard others say it.'

Frollo's mind raced. She had drawn close to him while he was unawares. Was she a strayed lamb that he could bring to the fold? Or a witch? He'd often called her so as he'd lain on his pallet, his body in sweats. _Accursed witch_. At night he permitted thoughts of her to dance through his mind, though they shamed him in the morning.

Frollo glanced at her, just visible in the twilight of the confessional. Perhaps in saving her he could save himself. A lamb could offer him no torment.

The words fell from his lips. 'Tell me your sins.'

'It – it is a man, Father.'

His hands gripped his thighs. _Despicable witch. Who has she let touch her?_ He wanted to drag her from the confessional and out of his church.

'Has this man had knowledge of you?'

She frowned, puzzled.

'Has he _lain_ with you?'

'How cold your voice is, Father. He has not, but I have thought about it, and he has asked me to join him in a low place this very night, I believe for that purpose.'

Frollo struggled to regain his composure. She was still yet pure. There was silence, as if she was waiting for him to say something. But he did not speak during confession except to administer penance.

'Do you wish to confess anything else?' he prompted.

She took a shuddering breath. 'I confess that I love him. Such feelings of lust I have for him, too. And I hate him because I love him.'

'You hate him?' Frollo asked, studying the panel before his eyes.

'Yes,' she said, her words heavy with passion. 'He is unworthy – he loves another, not me. But still I love him. I want to be rid of this love. I want to rip it from my body!'

Frollo felt his heart pounding in his breast. Was this sinful? He gave penance to his parishioners every day. Why not this girl? This sweet, young girl who'd come to him for help when all others had failed her. She needed him. She had been on the verge of giving herself to this other man, this doubtless undeserving nobody, and now she was imploring him for help.

If he turned her away, who knew what she would do tonight?

Frollo placed two fingers against his brow and his thumb against his jaw, as he was wont to do when receiving confessions, and bent his head.

'Tell me of the lust you have for this man, my child. Tell me all.'

...

 **I hope you enjoyed it! Please review and leave me a comment :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you to my CP Nine Bright Shiners for all her notes and suggestions for this story. Do go and read her beautiful, yearning Fresme story, _Forgive Me_ , in the book section for _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_.**

…

Esmeralda dropped to her knees in the confessional and clasped her hands together. 'Father, is that you?' she whispered, peering through the metal grille. A figure in black was sitting on the other side, two long fingers pressed against his temple, head bent. As she spoke, the figure raised his head, and she saw dark, winged brows. It _was_ the archdeacon.

'My child,' came the quick reply. 'You did as I bid you last night?'

The priest had counselled her for nearly two hours the previous day, drawing shameful confessions from her lips. He'd wanted to know everything: where Phoebus looked at her; if he'd ever touched her; what thoughts she had of him as she bathed; as she lay in bed.

How tight and angry the priest's voice had grown when she told him that just last week Phoebus had plied her with wine and tried to snatch the neckerchief from around her shoulders to expose the top of her breasts.

'Curse him, the devil!' the archdeacon had exclaimed, his head rearing up. 'He did not succeed in this endeavour? He did not touch you or the neckerchief? Speak!'

Esmeralda had assured him that Phoebus had not touched her and she had not touched the wine. She had regarded him for a moment, wondering that a priest should speak in so passionate a manner about a neckerchief. But, then, what did she know about the ways of priests?

'I did, I stayed at home and I thought about the Virgin Mary, just as you told me. At the hour I was to meet Phoebus I prayed even more, and my feet didn't stir over the threshold.'

It had been hard, though, thinking about the gallant captain and how handsome he looked in his armour, mounted on his horse. That he should notice her, a gypsy, in the first place! She was so used to being ignored by anyone of stature that she'd imagined a pretty fantasy: that he loved her, not another. But it was a fantasy. Would a true gallant make her snatch at the crumbs of his affections, and save the feast for another? In the coldness of her empty room she'd faced a hard truth: she was contemptible in his eyes, and unworthy of his love.

The archdeacon breathed out long and slow through his nostrils. 'Good. That is good. You have done well.'

Esmeralda chewed her lip a moment. 'I … did think about him, though.'

The priest's head turned toward her, his black eyes glittering in the darkness. 'Thoughts are just as sinful as deeds in God's eyes. Tell me about these thoughts at once.'

Her heart caught in her throat as he looked at her. 'Please don't be angry with me, Father.'

There seemed to be a great struggle going on behind the archdeacon's eyes, though she could not discern its meaning.

'I am not angry,' the priest said after a moment, only just audible but in words as hard and cold as granite. 'With you,' he added. 'I am not angry with you. Your generous heart has been taken advantage of. Your innocence has been ill-used.'

Esmeralda's eyes filled with tears. He did not think her unworthy! He thought her ill-used. How good he was. But then, it must be easy to be good when one was not plagued by desire. 'I wish I was like you, Father. So holy that I never suffered an impure thought.'

There came the sound of a strangled cough from the other side of the confessional. 'Yes. Just so. Now tell me about these thoughts.'

She could barely speak above a whisper. 'I thought about how he watches me dance. He sometimes lingers in the square outside, and I feel his eyes on me. I am certain that my dance is twice as joyous, three times as graceful, when he is there.'

'You like this man to watch you?'

'Yes, Father.'

'Are his eyes, then, so important to you? Would no one else's eyes make you as joyful?'

Esmeralda considered this. 'They are perhaps not so important,' she admitted. 'It is the admiration, not he, that makes my steps and my heart so light.' She bit her lip. 'I suppose that is very vain.' Vanity was a sin, wasn't it? She couldn't remember. 'Is there a prayer to help with van –'

'What if I were to watch you dance?' he interrupted.

She stared at him. 'You, Father?'

'For your sake. So that you wouldn't crave less worthy eyes.'

He was watching her now, his eyes bright and alert. They were eyes that missed nothing. Esmeralda found that she couldn't speak. Watch her dance? Was that not a little … unseemly for a priest?

Then she scolded herself. He was a man of God. There could be nothing lascivious in his gaze.

'You do not answer,' he said, and he turned his face away. Bitter reproach had entered his voice. 'You do not wish me to watch you, sallow and severe as I am, so unlike the fair-faced, golden _Phoebus_.' He sneered the name.

She pressed her hands against the grille. 'No, no,' she protested. 'It is not that.'

The priest's temple pulsed as he clenched his jaw. She had gravely upset him, this man who had been so kind to her.

 _A man_ , she thought for the first time, _for all that he is a priest. He is not carved from stone, but flesh and blood like any other. Despite that black cloth. Despite his vows._ For some reason this new consideration made her heart beat a little faster.

'Yes, you are sallow and severe, Father,' she said. 'But you do not gaze upon me with any less attentiveness than Phoebus. If anything, you are more attentive, for your eyes never wander from my face when I speak to you, as if you were thinking of other things.'

'But?' he said, his voice still thick with hurt.

'But, should the Archdeacon of Notre Dame watch a dancing gypsy in the street?'

The heavy brows drew together as he considered her words. 'You are right,' he murmured. 'It would not be seemly to stand always in the square. But I might sometimes,' he said, this last part almost to himself. He looked at her once more. 'I am oftentimes in my study, in the tower high above the square. I spend long hours in mediation at the window, looking at the city. I will watch you from there.'

'You would do this for me?'

'I shall. You may not see me but you can know that I am always watching you.'

She trailed a finger down the grille, looking at him with wonder. His eyes followed the path of that finger, his lower lip softening. 'As God is always watching us,' she asked, 'and knows our secret hearts?'

He looked down at her with an expression more tender than she had ever seen on his face. 'Just so, my child. Now, repeat to me the words of the prayer I taught you yesterday.'

She fixed her eyes on a point above his head, thought for a moment, and began. 'Hail Mary, full of grace. Blessed art thou amongst women …'

...

That afternoon, Esmeralda rolled out the Persian rug that she was wont to dance on, and rattled her tambourine high in the air. A little crowd gathered, and she began to move, turning swiftly, her hips swaying, her steps light and fast. At the crescendo of the dance she lifted her head, elongating her swan-like neck, and gazed up at the dark grey towers of Notre Dame. At a high window she saw the silhouette of a man leaning out, looking down into the square. She could just make out his hands pressed against the stone sill and the priestly square of white at his throat. His eyes were dark smudges in his face, but she could feel them drinking her in, bestowing their blessing, and she, with a heart lighter than it had been in weeks, danced on.

...

 **Please leave me a review if you are enjoying the story! It's such excellent motivation for me, hearing from you :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**A bit of kink coming up in this chapter. Enjoy!**

...

The last of the sun's light had disappeared behind the tall buildings of the square and dusk was gathering in the corners. Esmeralda had lingered too long; there was no one left to dance for.

She looked up at the window high in the tower. It had been empty all week. For several days she'd seen the priest there, and of all the eyes that watched her she'd revelled in his the most. It was a different feeling to being watched by Phoebus. He saw just her pretty wrapper: a shapely calf; a swell of bosom. The archdeacon's eyes seemed to penetrate to her soul. But there was more than benevolence in that gaze. He looked upon her in ways that he'd told her were sinful, a realisation that had first shocked, then entranced her.

But where was he now? Her eyes sought his figure in every window, on every parapet of the cathedral, but there was merely glass and stone to behold. It seemed his conscience had told him to renounce her – how good he was. She should rejoice in his goodness, but it meant welcoming her own unhappiness.

A dark figure stirred between the open doors of the cathedral. It was the archdeacon, come to bolt them for the night. Esmeralda picked up her skirts and ran to him. Her hands pressed on the doors even as he hastily closed them, shutting her out.

'Please, have mercy,' she cried, imploring him, pressing on the wood with all her strength.

The archdeacon paled, but arrested his movements. His hands clutched the doors, using them to shield his body, he inside the cathedral and she without. 'What do you want?' he asked, his voice husky and low.

'I … want to confess.'

His jaw tightened. 'You are not of my flock.'

'But I have seen him again,' she cried. 'He has …' _Dark eyes like storm clouds that lash me with their fury. A countenance so severe that I would soften it with kisses, though my kisses would fall as if against stone_. '… a fair face and golden locks. My dreams are filled with kisses for him.'

He turned his face away from her. In a moment he would shut the door and she'd hear his rapid steps recede. He had hardened himself against her just as she had been awoken to him. And now what was she to do? The priest had cured her of one malady only to instil her with another, even fiercer than the last. It was too cruel.

She implored him, 'How do you control your urges, Father?'

His eyes suddenly lit as if with flame. A cold hand encircled her wrist and he pulled her inside the cathedral. The door slammed, and she was pressed back against it.

'My urges? My urges? I am the Archdeacon of Josas!' he snarled, the tip of his nose just inches from hers.

'Then for some other reason you have withdrawn from me?' she quavered.

His words were hot against her mouth. 'Oh, you are a demon witch sent to test me.'

'I am just a girl, Father. If I have tempted you, then you have triumphed over that temptation; you have triumphed over _me_ , for my heart is in turmoil for you.'

His hooded eyes darkened with rage. 'You would lie to me in this sacred place? It is your _Phoebus_ that you love.'

Esmeralda laughed. 'Phoebus! How could I love such petty regard? My heart did not sing to behold him, but it sings now. Tell me how you have silenced yours so that I may do the same.'

The priest's eyes burned into hers. 'The same,' he said to himself, and his voice was filled with scorn. 'Oh, she would do the same.' He unclasped her and began working at the buttons of his cassock with angry fingers. When it was open across his chest he pulled it down over one shoulder and turned his broad, white back to her. His skin was criss-crossed with angry red striations.

Esmeralda lifted a shaking hand and lightly traced a score mark. It was raised and hot. Some marks looked as if they had bled a little. At her touch, the archdeacon closed his eyes, his head falling back. 'Every welt is a torment that I have tried to quiet,' he whispered into the darkness of the cathedral.

'But who has done this to you?' she whispered, unable to tear her eyes away from the marks.

For a moment he only breathed. Then he refastened his robes and rounded on her. 'I did it!' The topmost buttons were undone and his clerical collar hung loose, exposing his throat. 'I chastise my body to bring it into subjection. For I am _in persona Christi_ for my flock – I act as God here on earth for them.'

She looked at him in wonder. His flock recited words as penance and that was enough to restore them to God's grace. Did they know that their archdeacon visited such punishments on his flesh, so that he might be worthy of them? When she closed her eyes she saw again that wounded back, and shivered.

'How does it feel?' she asked. 'After?'

His eyes were feverish when they met hers. 'Pure. Or at least, that is the intent.'

'But of what do you need to purify yourself?'

' _You_ , gypsy,' he cried. 'How you torment my nights and plague my waking moments! Every mark is a thought of you that I can only repent of, but never banish.'

Esmeralda ached for him; by coming to his confessional speaking of her lusts she had driven him to self-violence. Though how eagerly he'd questioned her and drawn every detail from her lips. How quickly he'd offered to watch her dance. For all that he was the Archdeacon of Josas, and refuted his urges, he wanted her.

She lifted her chin, her eyes soft and wide. 'Is my impurity causing yours?'

He gave a dark, hollow laugh. 'Before I saw you in the square, how unbroken was the peace of my days.'

She bit her lip. 'Do I pollute you, Father?

'Yes, you are the pollution,' he said, advancing on her. 'I will baptise you, I will drive the impurity out. I will –' Then his eyes sharpened and he grasped her wrist once more. 'No,' he grated, his fingers digging into her flesh, making her gasp. 'This will answer better.'

He turned into the darkened church, dragging her with him. She had to half-run to keep pace with his long strides. They passed through a low door, and then up a spiral staircase. Finally they emerged into a large, square room. Esmeralda recognised the window – it was the one from which he'd watched her. There was a desk, and many books and paraphernalia, but she didn't have time to take in anything else as he pushed her face-first toward a wall. His hand rested against her neck for a moment.

Esmeralda opened her mouth to speak, but he ordered, 'Put your hands on the stones.'

She did so, and felt his hands grasp her dress at the nape. With a single wrench he rent the garment open to her waist. The skin of her bare back prickled in the cold air. Over her shoulder she saw him take something long and thin from his desk.

There were no restraints. She could flee from him if she wished, and likely escape. But she felt no panic, and no desire to flee. 'Will this make me worthy of you, Father?' she whispered.

He exhaled through his nostrils. 'Is that what you wish? To be worthy of me?'

'More than anything.'

He groaned, and lifted his arm. There was a whistling sound and the instrument struck her flesh with a stinging blow. Esmeralda cried out, and pressed her cheek against the wall, panting hard. The pain seemed to clarify her mind. She shrugged out of her dress and the garment fell to the floor. She was naked before him.

The priest's breath caught, and she saw his hand working on the cane, tightening and releasing its grip.

She had one stripe, now, to match his many. But she wanted more. 'Purify me, Father,' she whispered.

There was a whistle. A strike. Esmeralda cried out again. Behind her, the priest began to murmur, 'Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our defence against the wickedness and snares of the devil …'

Esmeralda hid her face against the stone, biting down on the smile that curved her lips, her body writhing with each stinging strike of the priest's cane.

...

 **Any Frollo fangirls out there who wouldn't mind the same treatment - as long as he wasn't tooooo thorough about it? ;)**

 **In the next chapter: how thorough he is, and what happens after!**


	4. Chapter 4

The cane fell from Frollo's nerveless fingers. She stood huddled against the wall, her back, her behind, her thighs all scored with red. What had he done? For how long had he been marking her like this? Time had flowed away from him and some other part of him had taken control. Something wild, primeval.

Going to the pallet in the corner he took up a sheet and hurried to wrap it around her, gathering her away from the wall and into his arms. If he held her tightly, he thought with a guilty flush, she would not be able to look at him, and he would not see the pain in her eyes. ' _Petite boh_ é _mienne_ ,' he said in a strangled voice. 'Are you all right?'

To his surprise she huddled closer to him and pressed her cheek against his chest. When he dared to look at her face it was not etched with pain or reproach, but some higher, almost beatific, emotion.

Frollo led her to the pallet and bade her lie down, meaning to back away again immediately. But she pulled him with her, her little fists gripping his cassock. He could not seem to resist, and they lay together, his arms around her swathed body.

'My heart is pounding,' he whispered, his feverish eyes dancing over the stones before his face. 'I don't know why I – you must think me –'

'Shh,' she murmured, and reached up to stroke his brow, and he realised that _she_ was comforting _him._ 'Thank you, Father.'

He pulled away a little and looked at her, and her expression was sweeter than the Madonna's. How fitting, in this place. Notre Dame. Our Lady. 'You thank me for this?' he asked.

'I am marked like you,' she said, solemn now. 'I feel as you feel. When you suffer I want to suffer. When you feel joy I want to feel it, too.'

His heart swelled, for as he looked into her face he felt her pain, her joy. How was this? Was this love that he felt for her, or something baser? He was not meant to feel any love but God's love. It was written so. _But by what right_ , he thought, suddenly defiant, _did those authors of long ago have to deny any man this strange, beautiful moment?_

Frollo's hand fumbled through the sheets that enfolded her and he pressed his hand against her breastbone. 'Your heart beats as mine beats,' he murmured. A little black tendril of thought unfurled in his mind. _If I feel differently later I can repent. But that is a matter for later._

Already his mind was springing forward down other avenues. That joy, that unity that they felt, that was what marriage meant. Oh, how he wished that –

But he pushed that foolish, yearning thought from his mind and looked at the little gypsy in his arms. Her wounds must be smarting. He had not drawn blood but the marks were many and a vicious red colour. Extricating himself with a murmur, he went to his workbench and pawed though canisters and vials and wooden boxes with little compartments. His personal apothecary was always well stocked, and he ground up a soothing balm with chamomile flowers, calendula and hazel water.

When he knelt by the pallet with the mortar in his hand and bade her uncover her back, she frowned up at him.

'Do you anoint your marks, Father?'

'No. I must bear them as a reminder to myself of my penance.'

'Then I don't want to be anointed either,' she protested.

His forefinger traced her soft cheek. 'But you must allow me this, my child, because I can bear my pain, but I cannot bear yours.'

She angled her head against his palm, her eyes half-closing. Then she rolled onto her belly.

Frollo worked slowly, starting at the tops of her shoulders and smoothing the cooling mixture over each mark that adorned her back, her waist, the swell of her behind, her thighs. A woman's naked body was a mystery to him, and what perfection he found it to be; a landscape of soft, warm curves and tempting valleys.

When he was finished he just sat and looked at her, the mortar forgotten beside him. She turned her head to look at him, a dreamy smile on her face.

'How sad you look,' she whispered. 'Almost lost.'

He felt lost, or at a loss. What was he to do with her? With himself? She was not for him. She was for some other man who could give her joy. Give her all of himself. He turned his face away and made to stand. 'I must go.'

But she rose up on one arm and grabbed his hand and brought it to her breast. He breathed in sharply. What felt like this? Not down, nor soft-risen dough, nor the most expensive furs.

'Why must you go? Stay with me. Here,' she said, moving back toward the wall, 'there is room for two.'

And so Frollo lay down again and she nestled herself against him once more, her head pillowed on his arm. She fell asleep within minutes but he could not follow her so easily, and he remained awake for many hours, twisting and retwisting one of her curls around his forefinger, and thinking.

…

She felt him ease himself away from her sometime just before dawn, and his lips pressed against her brow. He whispered for her to stay where she was, and sleep. 'Rest here today, will you? For me? I will be back at dusk.'

Tired still, she nodded, and closed her eyes. She heard him moving around the room, but was asleep by the time he departed.

Gauging by the bright light at the window it was many hours later when she woke again. Beside the pallet she found a flagon of watered wine, bread and soft cheese, and a little plate of sweetmeats. She smiled when she saw them; he must have gone out specially for such an indulgence.

It was not her habit to stay indoors all day and she thought once or twice about leaving. The door was unlocked; she was not a prisoner. But she was curious, too, about what he had planned for her at dusk, when the cathedral would be shut once more and his duties would be over. She amused herself by sitting on the windowsill and looking down into the square, still wrapped in the sheet, and then by flicking through his books and papers. Their contents remained a secret: she could not read.

Just after dusk she heard his step outside, and the door opened quickly. The archdeacon looked around, his face relaxing into a smile when he saw her as if he'd feared she might have fled.

He put a stack of folded clothing and linen to one side and then came forward to examine her shoulders. She twisted her head and looked up at him, liking the brush of his fingers and the solicitous frown on his brow.

'It is all right. They are no longer swollen, and they do not pain me,' she assured him.

He turned her toward him and rested his hands on her shoulders, and looked deep into her eyes. 'I want to baptise you,' he said. 'I – it is something that is good and right.' She noticed how his voice lay heavy on the _something_.

'Yes, Father,' she said.

He watched her closely. 'Are you sure that you want this?'

'I want to understand what you do, and what you are.'

He looked rueful. 'You may regret that, as the knowledge may not bring you comfort. But I want this for you, even so. I must have some assurance that you have been saved.'

His hands gripped her tightly, and she smiled at him. Last night he had attended to her body. Tonight he would attend to her soul. 'Then I want it, too.'

'Come down into the cathedral. Just as you are.' He took her hand in one of his and she followed him downstairs, her other hand clasping the sheet to her bosom.

No light filtered through the stained-glass windows, but there were dozens of lit candles clustered around the font. Esmeralda peered into its cold, murky depths.

The priest pulled the sheet from her body and cast it away into the darkness. Naked and barefoot on the stones, she shivered a little, but made no move to wrap her arms around herself. He began to speak in Latin, his expression lofty and remote. His hands moved in practiced motions, dipping into the font, drawing a cross with his wet thumb over her forehead several times.

It was over quickly, and then they stood in silence with the gulf of a foot between them.

'I am baptised?' she asked, and he nodded.

His eyes refocused, and it was as if he descended from somewhere on high and felt his feet on the ground once more. He put out his hands and drew her to him. His eyes were on her body now, and she saw the heavy rise and fall of his chest. 'What is your name, _petite boh_ é _mienne_?'

'Esmeralda,' she whispered.

'Esmeralda.' He said her name slowly, like it was something foreign and mysterious. His hands gripped her hips tightly. There was that hungry look in his eyes again, and the candlelight glimmered in their depths. 'Will you call me Claude?'

'Yes, I will. What will we do now, Claude?'

His gilded gaze flicked to hers. 'Something that will make us penitent, no doubt.'

...

 **Whew, I just loved writing this chapter. What did you think?**

 **Thanks as ALWAYS to Nine Bright Shiners.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Smut ahoy.**

...

'… And they will pay the penalty of eternal damnation, away from the presence of the Lord and the glory of His power!'

Archdeacon Claude Frollo thrust his finger into the air and cast hard, glittering eyes around his congregation. His thunderous words echoed off the stone walls of Notre Dame and up toward the vaulted ceiling.

The faces of the people below were pale, upturned, their eyes dancing with images of hellfire. It was his voice and presence they responded to as much as his words. They were in his domain, his thrall. Frollo slowly lowered his hand, such a feeling of vigour spreading through his chest.

He was just winding up to one of his favourite discourses on the deeds of the wicked when he noticed a figure in the last pew. Unlike the others, who were dressed in sombre black and grey, their faces pinched and pious, this young woman had a riot of curls and colourful clothes, and a red, bitten mouth, as if she'd been chewing her lower lip.

The sermon evaporated from his mind. It was replaced by images of his thumb rubbing hard over that soft lip; the feeling of her tongue running over it, of her taking it into her mouth and sucking. He gripped the lectern with both hands and breathed hard.

A moment later he snapped, 'For the glory of God, amen,' and descended the pulpit.

The parishioners blinked, the spell he'd woven rapidly unravelling. 'Amen,' they repeated.

Frollo swept down the centre aisle, his black robes swirling around him. Pausing for a moment at the last pew, he looked hard at the gypsy girl, and then at the vestry door. Then he strode on.

It took an interminable time for nearly a hundred and fifty parishioners to file out of the cathedral, each murmuring their goodbyes to the archdeacon and receiving his clipped responses. Frollo required all his self-restraint not to look to where he had last seen the gypsy. Would she still be sitting there? Would she be in the vestry by now?

Finally the cathedral was empty and he pushed the heavy oak doors closed. His palms rested on the wood a moment, his head bowed. 'Woe unto thee, sinners, hypocrites,' he murmured to himself. 'Ye shall receive the greater damnation.'

Frollo turned toward the vestry, his strides long.

Inside, the girl was waiting for him. It was a moment's work to slam and bolt the door and pull her into his arms. His mouth claimed hers and his hands her slender waist. She arched up to meet him, her mouth opening. How heated her flesh was, how soft she felt beneath his hands. He had never realised until recently how yielding a woman's body could be, so accustomed as he was to his own hard, cold flesh.

Her hands gripped his cassock and she whimpered, pressing herself closer to him. He had tried to be gentle with her the first time, by the baptismal font, but he, so inexperienced, so desperate for her, had been like a wild creature. She'd kissed him softly afterward, and told him that the burn of pain she'd felt at his first thrust had felt like penance. Then she'd whispered to him such secrets about her body that his eyes had grown round as communion hosts. Her hand had directed his fingers here and there as she spoke, until he gripped her wrists hard and snarled at her, demanding to know who had taught her such things.

'No one,' she whispered, her breath hot against his mouth. 'I discovered them for myself.'

The girl had confessed all manner of things to him. He was sure he would be able to tell if she lied, and there was nothing but truth in her trusting face. Nevertheless, he'd said in a harsh whisper, 'It is for me. These places, this knowledge. Only for me.' His expression had been his flashing pulpit expression, the one that would brook no argument, that promised perdition, damnation. She had held her breath and nodded.

Taking her by the hand he led her up a spiral staircase. High in the tower he kept his study, and he directed her to the pallet in the corner. Upon it they lay, tight around one another, until he felt that wildness come over him once more. Her slender fingers had been working at the buttons of his cassock and he divested himself of the garment and other parts of his raiment. She reached for him, but he grasped her hands and pushed her down, rolling her onto her belly and moving between her legs. With one hand he pinioned her wrists behind her back. The other hand rucked up her skirts until her lower half was bare beneath him. He listened to her panting lightly as he kneaded the flesh of her behind. By some instinct he wanted her like this, prone before him, her body a symbol of vulnerability. Frollo liked symbols and ritual. They vested an ordinary act with meaning and power, and this act, like everything else in this cathedral, would be subject to his governance.

His free hand dipped between her thighs and he felt a slippery wetness. It was one of the secrets she had told him – it meant she wanted him, was ready for him. Had she been like this, in the pew, watching him? A groan expanded his lungs. He pushed her thighs wider with his knees and sheathed himself inside her. Then again, and again, his eyes closed, his body awash with sensations that demanded _more_ and _deeper_. He voiced his veneration and desire in the only way he knew how, intoning as he moved, ' _Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra. Panem nostrum quotidianum_ …'

Muffled cries came from the gypsy girl. He was becoming carried away again, he was too violent with her. He arrested his actions immediately. 'Do I hurt you?'

Her breathless reply was the negative, and she begged him to continue as hard as before.

Frollo studied her a moment, unsure whether she was telling an untruth so as to please him. She begged again, more urgent this time. Watching her closely as resumed his thrusts, he discerned that the flush on her cheek and the anguished expression on her face, which he had mistaken for pain, was one of pleasure. The act was a man's act, was it not, for his gratification? Or was this, too, something he'd mistaken in his ignorance? The thought that she was feeling some or perhaps even all of the sensation that he was in that moment made desire plunge through him.

'Your sermon,' she gasped, her eyes screwed shut, 'you did not finish it.'

His sermon. Damn the sermon to hell, he needed this more.

'Tell me the rest,' she said, crying out beneath him.

He reached forward and buried his fingers in her hair, holding a fistful in a firm hand. The words were ready on his tongue. 'For he that eateth and drinketh unworthily,' he growled, his voice ragged and panting, 'eateth and drinketh damnation to himself.'

'Am I unworthy, Father?'

He was nearly tipped over the edge, hearing her call him that. 'Nay. I will eateth, and I will drinketh of thee.'

' _Mon Dieu_ ,' she moaned into the linen sheets, and such a cry ripped from her throat and she bucked beneath him. The wail went on and on, and such a tightness there was about him that his own crisis came upon him, and he knew not where or who he was.

The world rushed back and he opened his eyes. His hands slowly released their iron grip on her, and he withdrew. She was as languid as a puppet without its strings as he gathered her into his arms. Here and there her clothes had loosened, and he kissed her softly, slowly, listening to her breathe. How beautiful she was, her skin aglow from his ministrations.

'Tell me some more,' she said, looking up at him, her forefinger tracing the hard line of his cheekbone. 'I want to hear your voice.'

He thought for a moment. Another sermon came to him, one that he had read and knew by heart, though had never quite comprehended. Now the words passed easily over his lips. 'Let me kiss you with the kisses of my mouth,' he whispered into the cleft between her breasts, 'for your love-making is sweeter than wine. Your name is an oil poured out.'

She shivered and her eyes drifted closed. Untangling the sheets from around their legs he drew the covering over them both and pulled her body against his. His words were a soft murmur in her ear. 'I take thee into my tower, and my banner over thee is love. My left arm is under thy head. My right embraces thee.'

Her breathing deepened. She was close to sleep, though a smile curved her lips. His. His to protect. His to hold and love. Just them in this place, outside the world but inside their bodies. He felt as if he was inhabiting his body for the first time. 'I charge you,' he said, his lips fluttering against her neck, 'daughters of Jerusalem, by all the gazelles and wild does, do not rouse, do not wake my beloved before she pleases.'

'What is that passage?' she whispered, her eyes still closed.

'It is from the Bible, _mon ange_.'

Her eyebrows rose in surprise. 'The Bible? But it is beautiful. Why do you not read that during your sermons?'

He reached for her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing her palm. 'Because it is too sweet for them, _petite bohémienne_. It is just for you.'

...

 **The passages Frollo quotes to Esmeralda after they have made love are from The Song of Solomon. I hope you enjoyed this chapter :) Leave me a review either way.**


	6. Chapter 6

Frollo kept his hand tight around Esmeralda's upper arm as his eyes darted down every darkened laneway and around every deserted square. He felt a pulsing fear, as if there was some beast or spectre abroad which wanted to snatch her from him.

Esmeralda walked quietly by his side, her face hidden by the cowl of her cloak. 'I can take myself home,' she'd told him once they'd peeled themselves off the pallet in his study. How reluctantly he'd let her go. How reluctant he always was to see her leave him.

The fear had come over him then – that if he bid her adieu at the cathedral doors he would never see her again. 'Walk across Paris, in the dark, alone? You shall not, and never again,' he'd said, and donned his cloak over his raiment. His hands had tucked her red locks away from sight beneath her hood. Let those who watched her dance see it under the sun; only he would see it by moonlight.

She led him to a very low part of Paris, and his mood darkened; Esmeralda did not belong her among the murk and villainy. But on she walked and the streets became lower still. Finally she unlocked the door of a dishevelled house onto a single room. Frollo had to duck through the doorway, and once inside his head grazed the ceiling. There was a brazier in one corner and a pallet lay on the floor before it. On the other side of the room was a table and a single chair.

Esmeralda looked at him, the beams overhead, the four walls. 'How you do take up space, Claude.'

'It is small,' he replied.

She twined her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him, tilting her head back to look up into his eyes. 'And how stern you are. I swear that your brow is only clear in sleep.'

'I concern myself with grave matters,' he said, frowning deeper, hoping to make her smile.

She did, and traced a finger over the ridges at the bridge of his nose. 'And yet you look so even when you are making love to me.'

'Ah, but that is a very grave matter indeed,' he said, and kissed her. Her mouth was so soft against his, and he felt his mind grow hazy. But then a thought intruded, fully formed and certain, and he broke the kiss. 'I don't want you to live here anymore,' he said suddenly. 'I want you to live with me.'

Her eyebrows shot up and she took half a step back. 'Claude! At the cathedral?'

'I don't live at the cathedral. I have a house on the rue Vondesse.'

Esmeralda just watched him, her expression one of doubt and perplexity.

She was going to say no to him? Why? She was offended at the thought of being his mistress? Quite possibly. She thought the rue Vondesse too grand and forbidding? Yes, that could be so. She didn't want him anymore? Frollo's hands tightened on her waist. No. He couldn't countenance that. 'What is it, _petite bohémienne_? Why do you withdraw from me?'

'Don't be foolish, Claude. If I live with you then we will be certain of being discovered.'

'If I cannot know that you are safe then I am certain of going mad.' He rubbed a thumb over her cheek, thinking. 'I was never able to do things by half, _mon ange_. It is all with me, or nothing. Seeing you in this place tonight has resolved me: I want you safe. I want you with me.'

'Oh,' she said, arch. 'You are resolved.' But then she studied his face, her eyes gentle. 'How very dear you have become to me in so short a time. I can't put you in danger. If we are discovered you will be banished, or worse.'

He breathed hard for a moment, scowling. 'So I am to leave you in this house that protects you when I cannot? With this floor that bears you up when I would bear you up?' He snatched up a cup from her wooden table and held it under her nose. 'With this cup which touches your lips when I am absent?' Her lips quirked in amusement, and his scowl deepened. 'I do not jest, Esmeralda!'

But still she smiled. 'It seems you are a poet as well as a priest. If you do not think of your reputation, foolish poet, then I must: I cannot live with you.'

Frollo's hand tightened on the cup. 'I am not accustomed to being refused.'

She laughed and flopped into the chair. 'Oh, I am sure of it. But still, no.'

He began to pace up and down the small room, his teeth working on a thumbnail. There was a tightness in his chest and he was sure it was because of her. Because she defied him? Nay, she may challenge him, and it would make his victory all the sweeter once he had stropped his mind against her own. What made it hard to breath was the nameless dread that there was something dogging their every step. Watching. Waiting. Was it a figment, or something more?

He whirled to face her. 'You speak of my position. What of yours? You cannot like being in this place,' he said, gesturing round at the peeling walls and uneven floorboards. 'You cannot like being hurried in and out of that cathedral like something shameful, with only enough time for me to – for us to –' His hand dropped to his side, helpless, and he swallowed down a mouthful of bitter self-reproach. She'd been innocent when she'd come to him. Stainless in deed, if perhaps not in thought. How he'd sullied her with abandon. With relish. He relished the thought even now.

'Claude, I dance in the streets for coin. Others have always thought me shameful. I rise above it. I always will.'

He threw himself at her feet. 'You will not be shameful. You will have a place, and be able to hold your head up. If you must have a pretence for being in my house than we will call you my housekeeper.'

'And give up my freedom? My dancing?'

'Yes,' he said, talking one of her hands and kissing her palm.

'Live in a grand house that I don't understand, with strange customs and rules that I couldn't even begin to fathom?'

'Yes. I will teach you. I will help you.'

She pursed her lips. 'Housekeeper. It is the thinnest of pretences.'

He gripped both her hands – that she did not refuse him outright gave him hope. 'Say yes, _mon ange_. Say yes and I will take you there now and you will have half of all that is mine. My bed. My table. You will be taken care of.' Fear made him desperate. It was not some tangible thing that stalked them through the Paris streets. It was his own fear. Someone was going to discover his earthly bliss, his tender feelings, and expose his misdeeds. Esmeralda would be ripped from him, and he would crumble under the weight of the world's reproach. He had to keep her close, to protect them both. It was the only course that he could see.

Again that amused look from Esmeralda. 'I will have a large house to clean, you mean, when before I had only this small apartment to scrub and dust.'

'Never mind the scrubbing and the dusting. I have a housemaid to see to such things.'

'A housemaid to take charge of as well! A housekeeper of yours has a great many responsibilities. Me – I only have to dance.'

Frollo pressed his feverish face into her lap a moment, and then looked up again. 'Come for me, _petite bohémienne_ ,' he implored. 'If you do not think of yourself in this, if it all amuses you so, then think of me, I beg you. I must have you under my protection otherwise I shall go spare.'

Her smiled faded and she studied him closely. 'I see that you are in earnest, _mon cher_ ,' she murmured, surprise colouring her voice.

'How could you doubt that I am anything but?'

Esmeralda took a long, slow breath. 'Well, then, Claude. I suppose my answer can only be yes.'

Frollo groaned and pressed his face against her thighs once more, relief making him weak. She stroked his hair and murmured pretty things that he only half heard. The dreadful fear had fallen back: he was outstripping it. If it drew close again then he would just have to find another way of outsmarting it. He was Claude Frollo. He would always find a way. He had to.

'Come, _mon ange_ ,' he said, standing up and offering her his hand. 'We will go now, and go quickly.'


	7. Chapter 7

Esmeralda hurried along the rain-slicked laneway, came in through the squeaky gate and darted across the garden. When she opened the kitchen door the housemaid turned from tending the fire in the pot-bellied stove. The girl's astonishment sank into sourness as she saw who it was.

'Is he home?' Esmeralda panted.

The maid shook her head and Esmeralda sighed in relief. She'd been dancing on the far side of town and time had got away from her. So far she'd been careful to always be home and demurely settled in a chair before Claude came in, but she'd been so tired that morning and had slept late.

She divested herself of her cloak, raindrops pattering on the flags, revealing her gypsy blouse and multi-coloured skirt. The housemaid gasped and crossed herself.

Esmeralda clicked her tongue at the housemaid. 'You cross yourself at me, she who receives the archdeacon's nightly blessing?'

The girl turned bright red, and Esmeralda smirked. Inflicting embarrassment was her only revenge against the girl's tuts and scowls. And her hypocrisy – she'd seen how the maid fawned over their master.

Ten minutes later she had changed into a black silk dress and was standing before the window in the chamber upstairs, bouncing on her toes. The room offered an excellent view of the street. She watched couples picking their way around puddles of water and boys pushing handcarts of apples, her fingers drumming on the window frame. The sun had set some time before and dusk was fading into night. Finally she saw a lone, dark figure making its way toward her, his black cowl hiding his features and his hands pushed into his sleeves. When he was beneath the window she leaned out and called to him in a loud whisper, unable to contain her happiness at the sight of him.

He raised his eyebrows at her and gave her a hard, disapproving look, though his mouth quirked a little at the corners. Then he pushed through the front door and disappeared.

Standing before the door she waited for him to ascend the stairs. 'My lord,' she said when he entered, curtseying and spreading her skirts, her eyes modestly downcast.

'Hmm,' he said, closing the door behind him. 'And where is the little imp who was calling to me from the window just now? I see only my sweet Esmeralda.'

She looked up, blinking wide eyes at him. 'Why, Father, there is no one else here.'

'Hmm,' he said again, deeper this time, but a moment later he smiled and opened his arms to her. She rushed into them, breathing him in and tucking herself beneath his chin. He was so solid, and somehow not cold against her cheek as he'd once been, but warm and vital.

'And what did you do today, _mon ange_?' he asked, planting kisses on the top of her head.

'Oh,' she said, feeling herself flush slightly. 'This and that.' She didn't like to deceive him about dancing, but he'd been adamant that she should not do so any longer. At first she'd been content enough to sit at home, soaking up the Claude-ness of her surroundings. His house was very much like him: grave and dark, but never dull. He had strange trinkets and rocks and odd paraphernalia, as well as hundreds of books with odd diagrams and charts that she couldn't make out. She'd sewn in the parlour, demure black dresses that she knew he would approve of, but during those long, lonely hours she'd felt her gypsy clothing calling to her from the trunk upstairs …

His forefinger tilted her chin up to him and he kissed her softly. It stopped the tide of her thoughts, as all his kisses did.

' _Mon coeur_ ,' he murmured, releasing her, and then sank into his chair by the fire with a great sigh.

'You are tired?' she asked.

He shook his head a little, but she knew that he was telling an untruth. He slept fitfully, often pacing about the house at night or sitting in his study. 'I've always been a night owl,' he'd told her, but she wondered if there was something weighing on his mind, keeping him awake.

'Bring me a glass of wine and let us sit together until dinner,' he said.

Esmeralda poured out a glass and took it to him along with a slim book of psalms for children. It was the book he was using to teach her to read. She sat with him in the large chair, curled against him and with her legs over his lap, holding the book open for both of them to see the pages. She slowly recited the lines, frowning over some of the words.

'Anointed,' he supplied when she stumbled, trailing a hand through her hair.

She kissed him, liking the rich, plummy taste of the wine on his lips. Then she read on. _Deliverance_ , he supplied when her lips stilled once more. _Absalom_. _Righteous_. Each word was thanked with another kiss.

 _How sweet this is_ , she thought as the fire crackled, and she felt the warmth of Claude's arms around her. When he was in this house it felt like home, as it never did when he was gone.

...

' _Bohémienne!_ '

The word was rapped out like the crack of a whip. Esmeralda froze, and turned. This was the far side of the city, at least a mile from the cathedral. Claude did not come this way – or so she'd thought. The dark figure of her beloved stood in the middle of the square, sunlight streaming down on him, as straight and tall as a new gravestone. Such a look of fury was stamped on his features.

The little knot of people who'd gathered to watch her suddenly dispersed, fearful of the archdeacon's wrath. As they scurried away they averted their faces as if worried he would recognise them from his services. But his eyes were not on them, but her.

Esmeralda did not hide her face, though her hands shook a little as he slowly approached her. It had been months since he'd looked so at her – like she was something obscene. Just last night they'd been so quiet and tender together, the whispered psalms on her lips, his gentle coaxing as she read.

'Such a display,' he said, his voice loud and pitched to carry. 'Such a flagrant, shameful display.' It was what the people expected him to say and there was something theatrical in his manner, but she could see real anger burning in his eyes; her betrayal had hurt him.

She raised her chin. 'Many gypsies dance, Monseigneur.'

He strode closer until his nose was just a few inches from hers. ' _Many gypsies_ have not promised me that they would not,' he growled, his voice pitched low.

'I did not promise,' she hissed, 'and you never asked. You demanded.'

Claude's jaw worked as he seemed to tease this out. Demanded and asked were very likely the same thing to him. 'I have risked so much for you,' he whispered. 'I thought you understood.' Then, loudly, for the last few who had stayed for something even more entertaining than a gypsy's dance, 'Leave this place, jezebel!' He grabbed her wrist as she turned away. 'No, you don't.'

She scowled up at him. 'Well, which is it?' Tears had begun to prick at her eyes – guilty tears, though she was cross with him for his harsh words.

'This is no place for a whore of Babylon, accursed witch!' he shouted.

Esmeralda bristled. Must he be so colourful with his insults?

His grip tightened on her wrist and he glanced at her attire, lips pursed and disapproving. And then his mouth slackened in surprise. She remembered that he hadn't seen her in her own clothes for some time now. They were more revealing than the dresses he'd grown used to her wearing, and she had shunned a corset that morning, her belly feeling tight and uncomfortable.

'This is no time for your wandering eyes,' she snapped. But he seemed not to hear her, and a moment later he reached for her waist. She jumped back. 'Claude! Now it is you who is making a spectacle.'

'I have not seen you in daylight for so long,' he said slowly, his eyes flicking back to hers. Cold, accusing eyes. 'When were you going to tell me?'

She frowned, puzzled. 'Tell you what?'

'That you are with child.'

...

 **Thanks as always to my CP Nine Bright Shiners!**

 **I'm so sorry there's been such a long gap between chapters. I've been on holiday for more than two weeks. I've also had some very exciting news: Carina Press have offered me a two-book deal for my contemporary erotic romance. The first one is going to be published Summer 2017 :)**

 **If you like the sweetness, kinkiness and smutiness of this story and you're interested in reading more of my writing, PM me and I'll send you a link to my Tumblr where you can keep up to date with publication news. I'm also starting to post some short fics there too.**

 **More Frollo and Esme very soon! xxx**


	8. Chapter 8

**Darling readers, I am sorry for the long wait between chapters! I hope you like this new installment.**

...

Frollo's jaw felt tight and painful and the world was sliding out of his control again, but he'd made a decision now. Circumstances would be wrought into the shape that he wanted once more. Esmeralda being with child was a circumstance that he should have predicted, but he was used to thinking like a priest, not a man. He was also used to being obeyed. Was this what being an ordinary man was like, having ones wishes ignored at every turn? How did the men of Paris live from one day to the next when women could so wilfully disobey them?

An awful thought nearly stopped him in his tracks. Children, too? Did children disobey their fathers? By the virgin! Something must be done about this.

The day was still bright and anyone could see his hand clamped around Esmeralda's shoulder, but he was beyond caring. Let anyone dare question him – he would have them put in the stocks.

Esmeralda finally spoke up. 'Claude wait – where are you taking me?'

But Frollo was not in the mood to be questioned. How dare she dance in the street when he'd specifically told her not to?

Finally she wrenched herself out of his grasp. 'You may not call me a whore and then march me through the streets like a criminal. Tell me where we are going!'

Frollo looked at her in annoyance. People were so much easier to manage when they were in awe of you. He should have kept her in awe somehow. Recited angry sermons to her? Made her sleep in another room? But even as he looked at her he felt his irritation slipping. She was his Esmeralda whom he cherished. He wanted to whisper words of love to her, not shout at her. He wanted to wake in the pre-dawn light and pull her naked body against his in his own bed, not banish her to another room.

'I am taking you to a priest,' he said.

She cast her eyes to the heavens. 'So I may confess to dancing? Oh, Claude, for pity's sake.'

'No. So he may marry us.'

Esmeralda stared at him. 'Marry us?' she finally squeaked.

He suddenly felt graceless and abashed, two emotions that rarely plagued him. Anger had barrelled him forward until now. Without its blistering mantle he had to acknowledge a terrible possibility: she might not want to marry him. He quickly catalogued their most recent night-time encounters. She had gasped his name and locked her thighs about him. Her nails had marked his back. She did want him, he assured himself. But was that mere passion, or something deeper? Was that love? How could one measure the love a woman felt? Irritation prickled through him. What were scientists doing all day if they hadn't yet come up with an answer to this problem? If he'd continued his study instead of taking the cloth the matter would have been settled by now. Idiots!

'Claude, why do you not say anything?'

He snapped out of his reverie. 'You are bearing my child. We must be married.' There, he would stick to certainties. A child must be borne in wedlock, therefore they must marry.

'We must not anything,' she rejoined. 'I didn't even realise I am with child. I need time to think, and you have not even asked me.'

'I would ask you,' he sniped, 'but it seems my requests are to be ignored.'

To his surprise, Esmeralda laughed. His annoyance slipped again, and he reached for her hand before remembering they were in the street. The problem was not, he realised, that he didn't know if she loved him, but his certainty that he loved her. What was he without her? Half an existence. Half a man. Not even a man, but a cipher. Perhaps he could have lived his whole life that way once, but now that he'd seen how much more there was, he couldn't go back.

He cast his eyes toward the ground, frowning deeply. He didn't know how to confess such a mad tangle of love and fear and need for her, so he said, 'You were never meant for me, but you are mine. I will have you properly as my wife.'

'And you will give up the priesthood?' she whispered, moving closer to him.

He looked up in surprise. 'Give it up? No, why should I?'

'Because priests cannot marry!' she exclaimed.

Frollo waved away her words. Priests could not do a great many things that he'd done with Esmeralda, but he'd done them just the same. 'There is no barrier, physical or spiritual, preventing the ceremony. No vow I took that would void a marriage vow.'

'But you did swear to be chaste,' she pointed out.

'I did. And I will swear something else now. Come along, _mon cher_. These are my worries, not yours.'

'I am not meant to worry how easily you break your vows?' she asked, standing her ground.

He narrowed his eyes at her. 'I do not like having my word and intentions doubted, Esmeralda.'

'Then you are not ready for a wife,' she said.

Hellfire, damnation and purgatory. The men of Paris must all be saints and he hadn't noticed. Elsewise they knew a secret he didn't. What would an ordinary man do when faced with such obstinacy?

'Please, mon ange,' he said softly, and with the folds of their cloaks to hide his movements, his twined his littlest finger around hers. 'How happy you would make me if you consented to be my wife.'

Her countenance softened. Was this the way? He went on. 'You are too lovely, too good for one such as me. I am bad-tempered and suspicious. Cold and unrelenting. Stubborn and wilful. My faults could not possibly be enumerated.'

She sniffed. 'Quite so.' But there was the ghost of a smile on her lips.

'You are an angel who walks among us. You are all the sweetness of my days.'

Esmeralda giggled and hid her face behind her hand. 'How you do flatter, Claude. It is all nonsense, and it shan't get you your own way.'

He felt his own smile tug the corners of his mouth, seeing hers. She looked up and studied his face. 'What is it?' she asked.

Frollo shook his head. 'Your smile makes me happy,' he blurted. Inwardly he remonstrated with himself. How clumsy that sounded.

'Oh, Claude,' she cried, and tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. 'You awful man, why did you have to say that?'

What, awful? It was foolish, but was it truly bad enough to cause her pain? Why was she crying?

Her hand clenched his. 'Do I truly make you happy?' she asked.

Frollo searched for some more pretty words to speak, but they had all flown. 'Yes,' he said.

'Well, now I have to marry you,' she sniffled.

In a daze, Frollo looked down at Esmeralda. 'Then, let us continue on our way, _mon ange_? To the priest?'

He indicated the way with his arm, and she walked beside him. Was that all he had to do, speak his true feelings? He looked at her again. Yes, she was still there, her eyes shining and her cheeks flushed. How lovely she was. And she was going to marry him.

The daze cleared, and Frollo's spine straightened. The men of Paris were fools. He had solved the conundrum of women in an afternoon, all by himself, and he'd never have any worries again.

...

 **That rather sounds like Frollo thinks it's the end of the story, doesn't it? *Evil cackle* I don't think so, foolish man. You've still got so much to learn. Leave me a comment and let me know what you think of the chapter!**


End file.
